The Spider and The Fly
A Moroccan Road Trip: Part 3 of 6
I can’t say I wasn’t warned, multiple times, about the scams I’d encounter in Morocco. Most were harmless, just clever or brazen stunts meant to extract a few dollars from unsuspecting or overly polite tourists, often too scared to offend.
In Marrakech I half-fell for the visit-the-tannery scam.
When I say ‘half-fell’, I was taken there on the premise that that day was the last day the Berbers would be in town before heading off to wherever Berbers go.
I knew the Berbers were there every day and weren’t going anywhere, but I played along anyway. I made certain the offer of a scooter ride from the Medina came at no cost and jumped on. So far, no problem.
It was the local at the tannery that caught me.
He offered to show me the entrance, then the path through, then the best vantage spots for photos, then the way out, giving me a hurry-along the whole way. Then came the extended hand asking for money for the ‘tour’.
I paid a small sum to avoid conflict. He brazenly asked for more. I should have known better to set terms and price before taking a step.
It was all more annoying than frightening or life threatening, but lesson learned, another to come…
The road from Ouarzazate to Zagora and then M’hamid (my destination) crosses hard earth, rocky plains and undulating hills that offer little or no respite from the sun and elements.
The sun wasn’t punishing at that time of year but getting stuck out there was not something you wanted to do.
The occasional car let you know people lived and travelled here, which gave me a bit of comfort.
Starting the descent from the high plains, I spotted a broken-down car ahead, its bonnet open.
An older Berber dressed in traditional wear and his younger companion waved me down. At a minimum I thought I’d offer some water, if needed. They asked for a ride to the next town to get in touch with a mechanic who would come and help them or tow the vehicle.
“How far is the town?” I asked.
“It’s only about 20 minutes” they replied.
The older Berber wasn’t exactly threatening so I agreed he could jump in, on the condition that I only had to drop him at the next town.
He jumped in and I had him hold my camera so I could be ready for photo opportunities as we went.
The road wound its way down the mountain, passing one or two small villages as we went, the Berber waving at some of the children as we passed through a small village.
As we approached town the Tagine-mountain, as the Berber called it, came into view. As the name suggests, it’s a mountain shaped like a Tagine dish, from the right angle anyway.
‘Tagine Mountain’ from the wrong angle.
“Thank you so much for helping, you must come to my Berber house for some Moroccan tea” he said, in above-average English.
“Sure, I’d love to.” I was going to break soon, and tea would be welcome.
“Where are you traveling to?” he eventually asked.
“I’m heading to M’Hamid to see the sand dunes in the Sahara.”
“I have an uncle that has a house near the dunes! I will call him, and you can stay with him” he offered excitedly.
“Ahh, sure, give me his number and we’ll see.” I answered without commitment.
As we came into town the Berber signalled for me to pull over and invited me in for a tea.
This location did not seem like anyone’s home at all. And true, it was not a house but a doorway leading to some stairs that adjoined a souvenir shop.
It was daytime and there were plenty of people around so there didn’t seem any risk following.
As I followed cautiously up the unnervingly dark stairwell, then down the carpet lined hallway to an upstairs room, my suspicion grew, wondering if I was walking into a ‘bring out the gimp’ moment.
“Surely not...” I thought to myself as the Berber sat me down in a carpet display room and then left to get some tea, “surely the car thing wasn’t all staged to get me into a carpet room?” as one of his friends, relatives, whatever, came in and started to talk to me.
Inside the carpet room.
“Where are you travelling to?” he asked.
“The desert, probably M’Hamid” I replied, ever more cautiously.
“Oh, I have an uncle that has a place in the desert, you can stay with him!” he offered.
“That’s what your friend said. Do you all have the same uncle? How’s your friend going with the car?” I asked with a cold bluntness.
“The car is ok. The mechanic is taking care of that.”
How did he know that?
I’d had enough and the tea wasn’t here, so I stood without saying much more, moved toward the door, and started walking back downstairs.
He followed and motioned me to come into the souvenir shop. I could see the tea was being set down by the Berber and I wasn’t about to let him off on his offer!
As I sat, a third guy I hadn’t met came in cold with a hard pitch “You are going to the desert. We can help you. My uncle has a camp. 1,000 Dirham for two nights in a camp with camel rides and Berber food” as he pulled out a dog-eared desert tour brochure.
“Really? I mean, fucking really?!?” I laugh-snorted to myself in disgust, but also wondering just how many nephews this uncle had?
I couldn’t believe this whole thing was a set up. I turned and faced the Berber, asking with narrow eyes and cold tone, how the car was going.
“The mechanic is on his way” he answered.
“How lucky am I to have rescued a Berber with a rug shop and an uncle who owns a desert camp?”, I said with thick sarcasm.
I had mixed emotions of anger, pity, and begrudging admiration that these guys waited for God knows how long, half an hour out of town, in the hope of being able to prey on the goodwill of a passing tourist. An unknowing sucker like me, a fly into the web.
No wonder the kids in the village waved as he passed; he’s a regular.
“What do you want? Camel ride, dune buggy?” continued the other guy, as I finished my tea with a final sip.
Cold contempt won out “Guys, I’m not buying a desert tour from you. I’m not buying anything.” I replied.
“Ok, what is your budget? How much do you want to spend?” they persisted, not able to distinguish my mood from hard bargaining.
I stood up and gave them a cursory “thanks for the tea, good luck with the car” before walking out. They probably waited all day for this fly, I’m sure they were disappointed he got away.
This was the disappointing consequence of dealing with one too many seemingly friendly locals that revealed themselves to be opportunists, scammers, beggars, hard sellers, or outright predators.
You became hard and cold, no longer able to see straight, unable to distinguish genuine goodwill (which does exist) from predation, or real need from gamed helplessness.
Assuming the worst is just simpler.
I pressed onto M’Hamid. Sadly, I’d never get to meet that famed uncle.
